I first released an album in 2001, on a major label, just before iPod fever and at the dawn of Napster and filesharing. Album sales were only just tailing off from their 1990s peak. As a result, budgets remained robust: you could buy a modest semi in Croydon with the average video budget and I was regularly given, gratis, clothing worth more than my monthly mortgage repayment.

My first album sold about two copies, and so I soon found myself on my own record label – not in the way people like Mick Hucknall do when they release albums as a pastime between taking the new Ferrari for a spin and popping to Bali for the weekend, but by default. I am in complete and utter awe of people who actually choose to start their own label, because I had no real idea how it would consume my every waking moment for a couple of years.

After completing my second album, Fires, I set up Idaho records in 2005 in order to release it. I lacked manufacturing know-how, distribution clout and extra cash – remortgaging and maxing credit cards was not enough. There was no online campaign budget – it was me, on my laptop, in any spare moment I had, cold-MySpacing people I thought might be interested in my music. Tour support consisted of playing as many gigs as I could, on my own, selling my album before and after sets and praying I sold enough to buy the petrol to get me to the next gig. An early casualty of this phase in my career was my driving license, battered after a particularly busy day on the M4 when I racked up nine points, and finally surrendered in Scotland courtesy of a hidden speed camera.

After selling 10,000 albums on my own, I entered into a new record deal with Warner Bros licensing the album, and I got the shot in the marketing arm that only a major label can bring. Suddenly, the same single that I had released to little fanfare (apart from Radio 2, to which I pretty much owe my career) was put on radio playlists everywhere and became a chart hit. Supermarkets started stocking my album. A major label has money, leverage and influence that is simply unavailable to most independents, and that isn't going to change any time soon.

I felt the difference between those two worlds again when Fires didn't sell the 5m copies Warners had hoped for, and so I dusted off Idaho one more time to release my third album, The Graduate, in 2009. It was not like starting from scratch – I am incredibly lucky to have a very loyal and supportive fanbase built from previous adventures in recording – but when promotion time arrived again, I had acquired a few more credit cards. I had also, by this time, acquired a husband, who would periodically find the card statements hidden under the sofa and make me open the bloody things. We effectively became a Mom and Pop label.

But, again, it was exciting. I found that breaking out of the usual major label timetable of releasing albums roughly every two years meant that I was steadily creative, and could make work and get it to an audience immediately. I also started a parallel career writing and producing for other artists. But in the four years between Fires and The Graduate, music sales had further declined, and it was hard enough selling copies to meet manufacturing and promotional costs, never mind make a little extra on top.

So, in the summer of 2010, when the head of Universal called and asked me if I would like to make a record for the company, I did not agonise over my decision. I was heavily pregnant, and while I was dying to record new material, I was conscious I could not be spending cash on putting out records when I had a mouth to feed on the way. I may yet resurrect Idaho, but, for the time being, I am just incredibly grateful that I get to make music for a living. It's getting harder than ever out there, and I am uncommonly lucky.